


Something Binds You To Me

by zarabithia



Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-19
Updated: 2006-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 06:30:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1636526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Peter and Mohinder grew closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Binds You To Me

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you to Tboarder for the beta. This was written during Heroes Season 1 so it does not follow canon at all after that. 
> 
> Written for Stone Princess

***** 

The first time it happened, Peter couldn't stop shaking.   

   
Amidst the clamor of celebration that came with saving the world, Peter tried to be thankful that the premonition from months ago hadn't come true.  He hadn't exploded and the world was safe.  Their hastily thrown together group of "heroes" had actually worked.  Moreover, they'd all managed to walk away with their lives intact.  Later, Peter would remember to be proud of his role in the efforts.  But that would have to wait for a time when Peter wasn't still shaking from head to toe.  

   
He saw the looks of confusion on Hiro and Matt's faces, the worry on Claire's, and the concern mixed with disappointment that crossed Nathan's face.  He wanted to reassure them, especially his brother.  

   
Peter was tired, though.  Exhausted, really, and not in the mood to beg for his older brother's approval.  So without a word, Peter turned away from the questioning looks with the intent of heading back towards his apartment.  It would be quiet there, and the sound of his own teeth grinding against one another wouldn't have to battle against the relieved cries of civilians and the frantic sounds of the city for the prize of being able to make him shake even harder. 

   
In mid-stride, he felt the newly confident hand of The Cheerleader he'd saved grasp his arm.  For the briefest of moments, the shaking stopped, his vision cleared, and the herd of elephants abruptly ceased their temple-to-temple stampede.  He was able to smile genuinely at her, full of the happiness that he should have felt on a world-saving occasion.  

   
But then the pain came back, as abruptly as it had left, and twice as strong.   He forced the smile to stay in place, even as her own green eyes widened in fear as the arm she was holding began to tremble despite Peter's best efforts to stop shaking.  Peter felt his teeth sink into the tender flesh of his inner cheek as she let go of his arm.  As she stepped backwards, the warmth of his own blood filled his mouth, and Peter felt the familiar sting of guilt at realizing he hadn't lived up to yet another person's expectations.  

   
This time it was Claire.    

   
He wasn't her hero anymore. 

   
But underneath that tingle of self-pity, Peter realized that the minute Claire stepped away from him, the tingling ache along his forearms dulled, and the short gasps of breath became far more successful in actually getting oxygen to his lungs. It was enough of a clue for the nurse in Peter to figure out that he needed to get as far away from anyone with the slightest chance of having a power.   

   
This time, when he turned to go, no one tried to stop him.   

   
The closer he came to his apartment, the less pronounced the symptoms became.   But the coughing continued, and the shaking still wouldn't stop.  It took Peter a full five minutes of fumbling with the lock to gain entry to his apartment.   As he went through the motions of consciously not-thinking, he devoted his energies to showering, pretending to read, and ignoring the fact that he couldn't stop shaking.  

   
He'd witnessed similar situations during his aborted nursing career, of course.  The combination of justified anger and terrified frustration that he'd seen on his patients' faces had prompted Peter to wonder just exactly what it might feel like to be betrayed by one's own body that way . . . to be that visibly vulnerable.  

   
He'd had dreams about it.   

   
But the dreams didn't begin to compare to the real thing.  The loneliness of the apartment was even more pronounced than he could ever recall it being before.  He longed for someone - anyone without a power to make the shaking worse - to help soothe that loneliness, but Simone had long since returned to Issac.  As for his family. . .well, the Petrellis had never been the comforting kind.  

   
And so, Peter was alone.  He retreated to his bed, curled around his pillow and dug his fingernails into his forearms in an effort to hold himself still.  So focused was he on his mission that he completely missed the knocking at the door.  Nor did he register the invasive sound of his lock being picked.  He did look up, however, when the door swung open, expecting anyone but the man standing in the doorway.  

   
Mohinder came over and sat on a chair next to the bed.   Peter was still looking for the right words to explain what was wrong with him, and trying to stop the shaking long enough to force his voice to come out in a manner approaching steady when Mohinder spoke.  "It's your power, isn't it?" he asked, his voice as low and gentle as it had been that day in the taxi.  It had been their first meeting, a chance happening wherein Peter had felt completely at ease discussing destiny with a total stranger.  Their subsequent meetings hadn't gone as well, and Peter had long since became convinced that Mohinder believed him to be as foolish and worthy of dismissal as Nathan did.    

   
But the current understanding spread across Mohinder's face and the encouraging invitation that accompanied each spoken word reminded Peter very strongly of that day in the taxi.   

   
It had been the day of the eclipse.  Peter supposed that was very appropriate, given the darkness of his apartment. But the light hurt his eyes, as did any attempt to speak.  Thus, Peter was perfectly content to nod - and yes, he would ignore the pain that shot through his head at the motion - and lie there in the dark, listening to Mohinder speak.  

   
"You absorb others' powers the way a sponge absorbs water. And like a sponge you can only absorb so much," the scientist mused, "So now I suppose the only thing to do is to wait for you to dry out, as all sponges eventually do."  

   
"Why-" his teeth scraped across the freshly-formed scar on the inside of his cheek.  In the midst of breathing and attempting to talk, Peter swallowed his own blood and the warm coppery liquid further agitated an already nauseous stomach.  His jaws fought against him, feeling very much like he'd bitten down on a jawbreaker too quickly, but Peter ignored the pain and forced the words out of his mouth.  "Why did you come?"  

   
"You helped saved the world, Peter.  Making sure you were alright was the least I could do."  Mohinder paused and allowed his eyes to sweep over the full length of Peter's curled up form, friendly concern very apparent on that typically guarded face.  "The others were worried about you.  And believe it or not, I actually had to fight with Nathan to keep him from coming here and making you worse."  

   
Despite his pain, Peter managed a genuine smile at the image of Nathan and Mohinder fighting over him.  Seeing his smile, Mohinder added, "I won, with the assistance of The Cheerleader.  You know, she has quite an impressive left hook.  If Nathan's not careful, he's going to end up with a scar to match yours."   

   
Mohinder's cordial voice surrounded Peter, embracing his aches with the snugness of a melted marshmallow around a toothpick.  Peter nestled further into the comfort of his pillows, and reluctantly asked, "Now that you know I'm alright, are you going to leave?"  

   
The other man leaned backwards in his chair.  "No," he answered finally.  "I don't think it's quite time for me to go yet." 

   
There was possibly more to be said, but Peter was content to bask in the company of the man who was not quite yet a friend while he waited for his body to stop shaking.  

*****

   
The second time it happened, the rest of the heroes went home to their families to celebrate Christmas while Mohinder went to take care of Peter. 

Although Mohinder still didn't know the city as well as one probably should have in order to drive a taxi in it, it didn't take him as long this time to find Peter's apartment.   He made his way past the shops and houses that had become almost familiar in the three months that had passed since the last time Peter had needed to be in such close proximity to the others.  The smell of old cheese that consistently permeated the stairway leading up to Peter's apartment no longer jolted his senses the way it had in the past.  And when he sat down in the chair next to Peter's bed, it was far easier to block the annoying sounds of Mrs. Williams' _Days of Our Lives_ obsession that bled through the thin walls of Peter's apartment.  

   
The shaking. . .the shaking was less disturbing the second time through.  Still, seeing the man that was always so desperate to help any and everyone shake so helplessly tickled the hair along Mohinder's arms.  It took a good deal of effort to focus well enough in the relative darkness of the apartment for Mohinder to adequately examine the body in front of him.  But the second time through, Mohinder knew enough about Peter to know that turning on a light would hurt him.  

   
Accordingly,  they sat in the dark together.  

   
"The shaking isn't as bad this time," Peter assured him.  "I - I was more careful this time." 

   
Mohinder nodded in acknowledgement, and ignored the urge to argue with the other man over the implied responsibility for the aftershocks of his own occasionally debilitating powers.  Instead, he offered merely, "The others send you happy wishes for the holiday."  

Peter used a shaky hand to push back the ever-wayward bangs in an honest attempt to hide the fullness of the smile that overtook his face.  Mohinder wondered how it must have felt for someone like Peter, who thrived upon interaction with others and craved their approval, to be forced to limit the time he spent with the one group of people who finally understood him the way no one else ever had.   

   
But that line of musings led to a very painful place for Mohinder, one where mocked professors were killed before the opportunity for validation was presented.   

   
"Mohinder?"  Peter's hand clasped his own, causing Mohinder's entire arm to shake in harmony with Peter`s.  Peter glanced down remorsefully and removed his hand, but did ask, "Are you alright?"  

   
"I'm fine," he responded, knowing that Peter knew better.  "I don't celebrate this holiday, but I've been around others who have long enough to know that it usually involves a great deal of eating, drinking, and other manners of gluttony.   Would you like me to get you anything?"  

   
Peter leaned back onto the bed, pulling the pillow up close to his body.  "It's not a good idea to try to eat while your whole body is shaking," he admitted.  

   
"Well, you're the nurse," Mohinder responded.  "I'll trust your judgment on that."  

   
His companion's lips curved into one of the few truly devious smiles Mohinder had ever seen cross Peter's face.  "It's not from nursing," he confided.  "The day of my twenty-first birthday, Nathan dragged me to this bar . . . Let's just say I learned never to try to ride a mechanical bull with a full mug of beer in one hand."  

   
Well, that wasn't ever an image Mohinder would have come up with on his own. "You spilled it all over yourself, I imagine." 

   
"And over everyone who was watching," Peter agreed with yet another devious smirk.  "Including Nathan."  

   
"Well, in that case, you can't call it a total waste of time." 

   
The laugh was soft, unexpected, and brief before Peter grew solemn again.  "You know, this is the first Christmas that I haven't spent with my brother."  

   
Mohinder felt a familiar tug in his own heart, but ignored it in favor of focusing on the man next to him.  "You'll 'dry out' in another day or so," he promised.  "In time for Christmas leftovers, if I understand that tradition correctly."  

   
"Yeah," Peter agreed.  "Besides, I like the current company just fine."  

   
Mohinder didn't voice his agreement.  He figured his very presence implied as much. 

*****

The third time it happened, Peter didn't shake at all.   

   
He didn't want to be afraid, and not having a symptom wasn't something to fear.  But in the place of shaking Peter had gained a numbness over his entire body.  

   
Peter wasn't even been able to walk home by himself; he needed Mohinder's help because his own legs alternated between feeling like they were made of rubber and not having any sensation at all.  It took them twice as long to reach Peter's apartment as it would have taken either of them on their own, and Peter supposed he shouldn't have clung as tightly to Mohinder as he did.  

   
But he had very real choice in the matter, and Mohinder didn't seem to mind, even when Peter's rubbery fingers misjudged his own grip and tore at Mohinder's crimson shirt.  

   
The wave of embarrassment he felt was intensified by the pleasure he obtained from the glimpse of naked flesh that peeked out from the ripped cloth.  Peter's cheeks burned the exact same color as Mohinder's shirt, and he willed his lustful thoughts away.  Mohinder was his friend, nothing more, and it would have been greedy to hope for Mohinder's friendly obligations to turn to something else.   

   
But Peter did take the moment to inhale the pungent scent of his companion and a minute longer to savor it before forcing his mind to focus on other things.  Namely, forcing his feet to cooperate as Mohinder dragged him up the stairway leading into his apartment.  

   
As they stepped into the apartment, Mohinder took a whiff of air and wrinkled his nose.  "What on Earth is that smell?" 

   
"Cookies," Peter answered, letting go of Mohinder and hobbling to the bed on his own.  Mohinder followed behind him, making sure Peter reached the bed okay.  When Peter's body hit the bed and he could feel none of the sheets against his skin, he was even more relieved at Mohinder's solid presence than he otherwise would have been.   

   
"Cookies?" Mohinder asked, taking his usual place in the chair beside Peter's bed. 

   
"I love the smell of cookies baking," Peter clarified, "And in the winter time, they always sell candles that smell like cookies baking - or are supposed to, anyway.  I always buy a bunch of them."  

   
Mohinder wrinkled his nose again, and forced the chair to stretch as he leaned backwards.  "It seems like a perfectly good waste of a candle to me." 

   
"You don't like the scent," Peter noted unnecessarily. 

   
"I think it smells rather vulgar," Mohinder answered.  His expression changed and he examined Peter's face with the intensity belonging on a scientist.  "Are you sure you're alright, Peter?" 

   
"I'm fine," Peter lied, as was their tradition.  As was also tradition, he pulled the closest pillow to him and hugged it against his body.  The familiar sense of relief and pseudo-comfort that the act typically brought didn't come.  

   
Instead, Peter sought comfort from the lingering memory of teasing flesh peeking out from beneath a crimson cover, and the lingering smell of sweat mingled with the musty paper scent of a man who spent so much of his time engulfed in books, papers, and research.  

   
Peter thought the smell went nicely with the scent of cookies baking.  

   
*****

The fourth time it happened, the shakes returned, but the grief caused by the loss of one of their own prevented hardly anyone from noticing.    

Mohinder wasn't at all certain that even Peter realized it. Peter was, as always, a good deal more sensitive to the emotions of others.  When Peter's own misplaced guilt and anguish at having lost one of their comrades was added to the mix, it surprised Mohinder very little to see the tears well up in the other man's eyes.    

   
There was something to be said for tradition, but there was also something to be said for knowing when to forgo tradition.  Thus, Mohinder ignored the chair beside the bed in favor of pulling Peter into a hug that told him that Mohinder understood his grief.   

   
Peter accepted the proffered hug with both arms.  Had it been anyone else, Mohinder would have pulled away from the clinging motion.  But it was _Peter,_ and for that reason alone, Mohinder allowed his body to serve as the substitute for the pillow that Peter would have otherwise embraced.  Leaning against the headboard, Mohinder cradled Peter's head, brushed away the continually errant bangs, and breathed in the Peter-scent of soap, dirt, and sweat as he felt Peter shake against him.  

   
The shaking - compounded as it was by Peter's broken sobs - was as difficult to watch as it had been the first time.  But Mohinder ignored his own discomfort, choosing instead to focus on the pain of the man next to him.   

   
Although he understood Peter's remorse at their mutual loss, Mohinder could not prevent the stray relief that he felt at not having lost anyone to whom he had been particularly close in the battle.  If he felt particularly grateful that he hadn't lost the man in his arms, Mohinder wouldn't have admitted it.   

*****

 

 

The fifth time it happened, Peter was certain Mohinder wouldn't come.  

Peter wouldn't have blamed the man for not showing up, not after what he had done.  To be fair, Peter knew that he could - possibly _should_ \- blame Jessica for unleashing that side of him.  But the memories of the frightened expression on Mohinder's face and the tenseness of Mohinder's body overruled any of Peter's attempts at logic.  

Besides, it wasn't as though Peter hadn't wanted.  .  . exactly what his "evil side" had tried to take. He couldn't truthfully say he hadn't fantasized about exactly how it would feel to be able to touch Mohinder, kiss Mohinder, and . . . and how it would have felt to do exactly what he would have done to Mohinder had it not been for Claire and Hiro's intervention.  

   
Of course, in Peter's fantasies, Mohinder had always reciprocated, and never once had he tried to pull away in fear.  In Peter's fantasies, Mohinder had never had any reason to _fear_ him. 

   
But those weren't exactly the kind of responses that would have been appropriate, even if Peter had been able to stick around after Jessica had been taken back to her prison cell.   For the first time since discovering the limitations of his powers, Peter was actually grateful for the way his body reacted to the overload.  Fleeing to the isolation of his apartment was both a necessity for his overextended body and, Peter admitted, a coward's way of exiting a situation he didn't want to face.  

   
Alone in his apartment, Peter curled up next to his pillow and tried to block the memories that kept trying to resurface.  Technically, his body shook no harder than the first time he'd absorbed too much, but the empty chair next to his bed made Peter feel the physical effects far more strongly than he had in the past.  

   
Conversely, when Mohinder did show up at his apartment, the shaking was nearly forgotten. 

   
"I would have been here earlier," Mohinder explained as he sat down next to Peter, "Except the foolish doctor in charge of my examination insisted on pelting me with a dozen questions on the nature of my assailant's biting habits."  

   
"I'm sorry."  His repentance only grew as he took in the bruises along Mohinder's skin. Bruises Peter had caused.

   
"There's no need for you to apologize," Mohinder chided gently, his face devoid of the fear that had caused Peter such deep amounts of shame hours before.  Peter searched his face twice, just to make sure, and ignored the twist in his stomach that came from meeting the other man's eyes. "After all, it was Jessica who is to blame.  Not you."  

   
Peter pulled the pillow closer to him and concentrated on the sound of his left hand slapping against his right as he responded.  "I - I'm partially responsible," he admitted, because if Mohinder was going to attempt to forgive him, then the other man needed to be told exactly why he shouldn't.  

   
It would make the loss of his friendship more bearable to Peter if he was able to be truthful with Mohinder.  

   
"Which part, exactly, are you responsible for?  Not the biting, I hope." 

   
It hurt to smile, in a way that had nothing to do with the shaking whatsoever. "No, that was. . .that was probably her."  

   
"Well? What part are you blaming yourself for?" 

   
"The part that wanted you."  Peter watched Mohinder's face carefully, waiting for the rejection he was sure he deserved.  When it didn't come, he frowned slightly and asked,  "Now that you know how I feel, are you going to leave?"  

   
The other man leaned forwards in his chair and gently brushed Peter's lips with his own.  Peter savored the taste of the other man on his lips, simultaneously confused, delighted, and surprised. "No," Mohinder answered finally.  "I don't think it's quite time for me to go yet."  

   
There was possibly more to be said, but Peter was content to bask in the company of the man who was not quite yet a lover while he waited for his body to stop shaking.  

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title from:  
>  _"In the darkness something binds you to me."  - Somewhere Out There, Steve Earle._


End file.
